The Vernacular of Vestibules

is a mixture of silence
and neutered jazz.

Outside exposed to the much talked about weather
I sell empty space
“$5 please”
I inhale fumes and fresh air
“Hello sir”
Some people don’t say a word.
Others exhale Seneca Nation cigarette smoke,
chew big bites of wet meat,
see through me
beyond me
accuse me
suspect me.
“Let me get the door for your ma’am”
My degradation illuminates their elevated status
more perfect than bleach
whiter than teeth.
“Thank you so much”
I stare at clouds
close my eyes
control my breath
expanding into
empty space.